The Oldest Game in the World
by boxfish
Summary: John Watson is a survivor. Everyone knows that. But when the good doctor's wits and skills are to be tested by Sherlock himself, who will emerge victorious? Very slight slash, you need only tilt your head and squint.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** **I do not own Sherlock Holmes and co. No money is being profited from this piece of thing.**

**A/N:**** I could use some lemon meringue pie right now~**

**Takes place between 1.1 and 1.2. **

**WARNINGS:**** A little swearing, some lovely BROMANNCE**.

* * *

**The Oldest Game in the World**

"Sloppy. Insufficient. Poorly- thought through. Barbaric. Mediocre at its very best. Actually, disregard that. It is an insult to the definition of 'Mediocre.'"

"I thought it was a pretty smart," John offered meekly.

Sherlock shot him a murderous look. "Smart? I knew who the perpetrator was in a matter of _seconds_. Coming here was a mistake. It was hardly a challenge," the detective rattled off as he flounced rather proudly from the crime scene, his blogger and coat trailing behind him as per usual. Yes, _flounced._

"Maybe." John shrugged. "If you ask me, it was pretty clever. I mean, who'd have thought of looking under the kitchen _sink_?" He waved his arms for a taxi.

Sherlock snorted. "Really John, if you're going to compliment someone, compliment me, not the criminal. 221b Baker Street," he snapped as the driver pulled up.

"Okay then, how would _you_ carry out the kidnapping?" the shorter man asked, letting himself in.

"I have too little information. You cannot expect me to pull off a stunt like that without permitting me to observe the person in question for at least a few days," he answered with a roll of his eyes. A pause. Suddenly, he lit up, hopeful. "Can we-"

"Nope, absolutely _not_!" the doctor shook his head. "We are _not_ going to attempt to kidnap a random person. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but that's a bit too much." He watched the consulting detective's face fall, and scrambled to make up for it. "What about me?" he asked. "Not for real, mind you. How would you go about kidnapping me?"

Sherlock stared at him, nonplussed. "You? You'd be far too easy," he smirked, disbelief molding into amusement. "You have habits. Far too many."

John frowned. "Habits? I-"

"You rise at approximately seven- thirty each day, take five minutes to brush your teeth, and are downstairs by seven- forty at the first thing you do is make tea- milk, no sugar- and sip it every fifteen seconds while reading the news. If it's a Wednesday, you wear that obtrusively white- and- black patterned jumper, coupled with those dull grey pants. By the time you are finished, it is seven- fifty- five. You fold the newspaper into fourths, leave it on the table for me to see, pull on your jacket and slip on your shoes, right foot first, but you alternate every other day, which can be chalked up to your ambidexterity. One of the benefits of being a surgeon. You unlock the door with your left hand, and open it with the other. You close the door behind you, making an obvious effort to be stealthy, because you believe me to be asleep. Idiot. Your keys are in your right pocket, but you never fail to look in your left. Once you've found your keys, you lock the door and head off to work. Need I go on? Stop here, please," he gestured at the cabbie. The taxi screeched to a halt.

"Angelo's?" John was perplexed. "Sherlock, we're at Angelo's."

"Yes, yes, John. You will make an excellent detective. Top class." Sherlock had flung a few bills at the cabbie and was already at the doors of the restaurant.

John shrugged out of the car, doubling his pace to catch up with Sherlock's gait. "Why are we here?"

They slipped inside the restaurant. "You require sustenance, do you not?"

"Yes, but..." The waiter led them to the table by the window. "How'd you know? Did you deduce it?"

Sherlock shared with him a wry smile. "Please. Are you telling me you didn't hear your own stomach growling in that cab?"

The doctor flushed, and the detective's smirk, upon sensing his partner's discomfort, only grew wider.

"Sherlock! John!" Before he knew it, John was overwhelmed by a large quantity of _mass_, only to discover that Angelo had drawn him and Sherlock into a bone- crushing hug. "Anything for you, on the house! I have a candle for you two." He leaned over to John. "You can't tell, but I bet Sherlock 'ere is a romantic."

John rolled his eyes. "He's not my date," he told the man. "We're just friends."

"I see, I see. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone your secret. You can trust Angelo!" The burly man winked and lumbered away.

John ordered penne pasta. Sherlock picked off of his plate.

After a minute of comfortable silence, John resumed his argument. "I may have some habits, but it'll be quite the challenge to take me down." He nibbled on the garlic bread, made a face, and gave it to the man sitting across from him.

"Not if I have the element of surprise on hand." Sherlock bit into it the bread, shrugged, and ate half of it before setting it aside. After a moment of thought, he added, "I've studied your fighting patterns. If you take that into account, you'd hardly stand a chance."

They finished the pasta. Not one to let food go to waste, John also finished the remains of the garlic bread while Sherlock entertained himself by building a tower with several menus the detective had snatched off unsuspecting tables while waiting for dessert. He lobbed a sugar packet at the structure, and was mildly surprised when it withstood his attacks.

"A week," John stated. Sherlock glanced up. "You wouldn't be able to find me for a week. If not, a month."

The smirk returned. "A week? Is that a challenge? I'd be able to best you in half a day."

"You would," John admitted, "but to do that, you'd have to use Mycroft, wouldn't you?"

John's chocolate cake arrived. The ex- soldier tried a small piece. It was good. Really, really good.

"You didn't say I couldn't use Mycroft." The detective had tasted a part of the cake, and, upon determining its worth, was now scarfing it down with much enthusiasm. John let him have the rest.

"A week. If I leave the flat and go into hiding, you wouldn't be able to find, much less catch me, for one week," he claimed boldly, though he faltered when a certain sparkle overcame the sociopath's electric blue eyes.

"This _is_ a challenge." Sherlock leaned back, hands clasped together. "I accept. We'll start tomorrow morning. Now, as for that case with the dead figure skater, she was killed with her skates- Obviously. Lestrade is such a-"

"Wait a minute!" The doctor held his hands up at Sherlock's questioning glare. "Rules, rules. We need to establish rules."

Sherlock looked bemused. "You're actually going to go through with this?"

"Who knows- maybe it'll get you off my back for a week. I'll do anything to keep you from getting bored," he sighed tiredly. Every time Sherlock had been lacking a case or an interesting experiment, one of John's trousers had suspiciously disappeared. The consulting detective had, of course, wasted no time claiming innocence. John figured it was some sort of penalty designed specifically to supply him incentive to ensure Sherlock did not tire of life.

Whatever the reason, it was working.

"First rule." John held a finger up. "No dragging the British government into this." Sherlock almost visibly pouted, and the shorter man barely held back a smile. "I mean it," he enforced. "Using Mycroft as a resource is hardly fair."

Sherlock paused. Mycroft would most certainly be a valuable asset if he were to keep an eye on John. The man had cameras perched at every corner of every alleyway, each building, all of the streets. Using his brother as his eyes would be a formidable advantage- one that would certainly tip the scale in his favor. Heck, he would even have all of Mycroft's lackeys at his disposal! The detective peered curiously at his companion. Small, vulnerable John wouldn't last two days, even if he was a former army doctor. It would be too easy.

"Acceptable," he conceded. "Proceed."

John relaxed. Without Mycroft interfering, maybe he stood a chance- albeit a very, very small one. "Alright. Second rule: no harming pedestrians to get your way."

Sherlock dismissed this with a careless flick of his hand and a huff. "It will be taken into consideration."

"Sherlock."

"I am unable to make any promises."

"Sherlock."

"Anything could happen."

"_Sherlock_."

"_Fine_," he snapped. "As if I had a mind to harm them in the first place."

"Good." Satisfied with his response, the doctor went on. "Third rule: no guns or other potentially dangerous weapons. You can't knock me out using brute force. Got it?"

John could see Sherlock's brow furrow, searching for a loophole, for something, for anything. "What if I accidentally...?

Now John's brows furrowed. "Jesus Christ, how could you _accidentally_...? Never mind. Just.. No weapons, okay?" He more or less trusted Sherlock to abide by the rules laid out, but he could never be sure with the man...

"Acknowledged. Am I allowed to hit you?"

John blinked, searching Sherlock's eyes, but there was nothing there but sincerity. "Yes," he answered slowly, "only if I can hit you back." Who wouldn't pass up a chance to punch Sherlock in the face?

But then again, Sherlock was capable of hitting people pretty hard. Once, John had been drinking tea, and unfortunately standing directly behind Sherlock, when the detective had suddenly reached an epiphany on a case, thus throwing his gangly extensions for arms about in his excitement and catching the ex- army doctor straight in the face.

As a result, his favorite china had been smashed to pieces, tea had soaked the Persian carpet, Sherlock had apologized- _but really, John, what were you thinking, standing where you were?-,_ and the doctor himself had been thrown to the floor with a bloody nose.

"Sedatives?" Sherlock asked."Please tell me I'm allowed to put them to good use."

"Well..." John briefly toyed with the idea. "Yes, but I have to be able to use them as well. And no syringes."

"Agreed."

"I think that just about covers it," John concluded, folding his hands and leaning back.

"About time." Sherlock leaned in, invading John's bubble. "My rules now," he proclaimed, and before John could say anything, he started. "Rule one: keep your mobile on at all times so that we may communicate. I give you my word that I will not use your phone to track you," he added hastily before John could ask. "Second rule: do not alter your appearance in any way. Changing clothes is permitted. Nothing else. Rule three: stay in London,

preferably within a two mile radius of 221b Baker Street. Fourth rule: In order for me to win, I must deliver you to our residence. And lastly..." A wicked smile overcame his features. "If I win, you have to dress up in a praying mantis costume and _dance_. On the street corner. Where I can film you."

John snorted and knocked down Sherlock's menu tower with a single blow, ignoring the man's childish protests. "No, Sherlock, just- _no_. You are my friend, and I do value your presence, but this is too fa-"

"But the hokey pokey-"

"I would look ridiculous-"

"Isn't that the poi-"

"Where the _hell_ would you get a praying mantis costu-"

"Mycroft."

John couldn't help it; he choked and burst out into a fit of giggles. He looked up to find Sherlock's smirk. "And what the _hell_ would Mycroft be doing with a praying mantis costume?"

The detective cleared his throat. "Every year as a tradition, Mycroft dons his praying mantis suit, and I, my bumblebee suit, and we go to that quaint little café around the block you so enjoy to have a nice brotherly chat," he said, with a completely solemn expression.

John blanched. "... You... What? I don't even..." He blinked aimlessly for a dreadful few moments until he caught wind of Sherlock's trademark smirk. "You... You were joking!" the doctor bristled, but try as he might, he could not hold back a fond smile.

"Took you long enough. I was afraid Anderson might have been rubbing off on you," the dark haired man quipped.

The ex- army soldier grunted. "As long as you're around, we both know that's not happening." There was a short beat, and then, "Have you any other ideas?"

"Would you be willing to dress as a suicide bomber and walk into Scotland Yard?" came the hopeful response.

John sighed elaborately. "What's wrong with you?" He asked, half-heartedly scolding. "Do you know what Lestrade would do to us? Sherlock, he'd never let you in on a case again! We could get charged and sent to court!"

Sherlock was undeterred. "Mycroft can take care of that. Think of all the _fun_ it'll be. I can do all the planning. You have the best part; putting them into cardiac arrest." He looked towards the doctor with what could only be described as a "puppy- dog" look.

John rubbed his eyes. It was tempting- very, very tempting to give in and say yes. Sherlock could be extremely persuasive when need be, and John briefly considered saying yes even if he didn't lose the bet, which he knew Sherlock would have no qualms with. But still, however much Anderson and Donovan might deserve it; it would not be a very civil thing to do.

He glanced up to find the detective's pale blue eyes locked on his, silently pleading, and sighed for what seemed like the millionth time in the past twenty four hours. He was going to have to be the adult today, tomorrow, and always, wasn't he?

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he apologized, grimacing a little at the other's crestfallen face. "but no. Anything else?"

The taller man huffed petulantly and crossed his arms. "You could drink one of my experiments, I suppose."

John gritted his teeth. "Sherlock," he started, "we've been over this before!"

And then they burst into another round of snappish remarks and arguing.

"I assure you, it'll be perfectly harmle-"

"-And then I'll get sent to the hospita-"

"-Only want to test the sideffe-"

"-Die alone, no wife, no kids-"

"-The cure for the common col-"

"-All because my stupid _flatmate_ decided to poison m-"

"For s_cience_, John, for _scien_-"

"No."

The pair fell silent.

"I could... Refuse to meet with Mycroft for a week?" John offered. "I know you hate when I meet with Mycroft."

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose. "That, and no dates for a month."

The doctor's mouth was set in a tight line. "Sherlock, n-"

"They're a waste of time, you know, those _dates_you go on." The detective practically spat the word. "I don't even know why you do that to yourself when you could be spending your day more efficiently, more effectively, with _me_." He was scowling now, and John could sense the oncoming storm.

"Okay." The response was so soft, so quiet, that even the world's only consulting detective's sharp ears missed it.

"What did you say?" He couldn't believe it.

John shrugged. "I said 'Okay'. I don't mind spending a month with you. Besides," he grinned almost arrogantly, "it's not like you're going to win."

An odd expression flickered over the detective's features, but before John had a chance to identify it, it was gone, replaced by Sherlock's default: infuriatingly calm.

"And if you win, I will buy the groceries for a month," the taller man stated. "Good?"

"Seems reasonable," John admitted somewhat grudgingly. "We start tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Sherlock confirmed. "You have until 10:00 AM. From then on, it's fair game."

When the both of them finally got back to 221b Baker Street, John went straight for his toothbrush. It was only, what, nine in the evening, but John wanted as much sleep as he could get. If he could wake before Sherlock did (which was, he admitted, highly unlikely), he'd have the jump. A head start would be ideal in his situation.

Finished with his nighttime rituals, he clambered into bed after setting his alarm clock for five AM.

He prayed in the deepest depths of his heart that Sherlock would have enough mercy not to disturb his much- needed sleep with that damned violin of his.

* * *

**Monday**

The sunlight streamed in through John's window, lighting up his room. He stirred, vaguely registering the soft chirping of those robins that always came by and bothered the hell out of him each morning until he threw bread at them. Down below, he could hear the repetitive drone of civilization starting another day. People talking, people walking- why couldn't the Earth just shut up for once? He nestled further into his sheets, pulling the covers over his head. What was Sherlock doing today? Strange, he couldn't hear any noise coming from the strange man, meaning he was either out, or purposely being quiet, and Sherlock never went out. Unless there was a case. In which John would have been forcibly woken up by now. He frowned. Sherlock was also never quiet, not even when he slept. The man deduced people his sleep for God's sake! So why... Oh, Christ. What had happened to his alarm clock?

In an instant, the doctor was up and out of bed, feet tangled in the sheets. He flung open his bedroom door- pausing only to glare at the seated detective, who blinked owlishly up at him- and sprinted to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and washing his face in under a minute.

What time was it? What time was it? He spared a glance at the nearest electronic device. 9:47.

He bolted out of the washroom, cursing his flatmate to the high heavens and back. "I know you tampered with my clock," he muttered angrily as he stuffed his wallet, toiletries, and other necessities into a bag. Screw spare clothes; he'd buy new ones. "I'm angry. And _don't_ give me that look!" he snapped at the smug man, who froze mid- smirk.

"What look?" he asked, and John very nearly burst into laughter. Sherlock had attempted to put on what he thought must have looked like a blank, angelic expression, unbeknownst to the fact that he was failing miserably. The shorter man could practically see his ego seeping through- it was quite endearing, really. How silly, he mused. An impeccable liar and a dreadful actor. What an odd mix.

Realizing he was wasting time, he huffed, slung his bag over his shoulder and made for the door.

"See you soon, John," Sherlock's voice drawled from behind him.

"Yeah, right," he murmured smartly, shutting and locking the door as he left. Then as an afterthought, he set down his pack and approached Ms. Hudson's room. She opened when he knocked, positively beaming at him.

"John!" she breathed. "What can I do for you?" She made a pitying face. "Did you and Sherlock have a little domestic, dear?"

He smiled patiently. He had grown fond of his landlady- Sherlock had too, of course. The stubborn git was simply too _stubborn_ to admit it. "No, Ms. Hudson, we're fine. May I please borrow one of your chairs?"

She glanced at him worriedly, but didn't ask. "Of course, dear. Take what you need."

John selected one of Ms. Hudson's more worn- down but sturdy chairs, and darted back to the entrance of their flat, and, as nimbly as he could, wedged the chair just underneath the door handle and at an angle. There. Now, it wouldn't be all that easy for Sherlock to get out of their lodgings. John is satisfied with himself. It was a good thing that their door swung outwards.

He checked his watch. 9:56. Sherlock would be getting ready now. He took up his pack and left in a hurry, though he stopped when he got to the front of 221b Baker Street, and looked up.

Sure enough, a pale face loomed at the window, staring him down with icy eyes, daring him to react. He simply waved in retaliation; an idiotic grin plastered on his face, and was unsurprised when Sherlock disappeared from the window with a scowl. What a child.

With a happy bounce in his step, he departed from Baker Street, adrenaline already thrumming through his veins. He loved this game, could not bear to be without it.

John's stomach growled. First things first- get something to eat. Because of the devious detective, he hadn't the time for breakfast.

He bought a sandwich from a nameless bakery several blocks away from his starting point, and munched on it contently. The bakery supplied free Wi-Fi, much to his delight, and he used this to search up any hotels in the general vicinity of Baker Street. Nothing too close, obviously, and nothing too far. There were four that caught his eye, and he set off in the direction of the nearest one, resolving to alternate between them.

Once he arrived, he immediately scoured the area for suspicious individuals. The one thing Sherlock would have a difficult time disguising was his height. His hair, he could dye, his eyes, he could easily slip contacts over, and his clothes, he could change, but his stature? Unless the detective was apt to wearing high heels in public, he had no way of changing his height.

That being said, John attempted to make himself appear taller- with his level of altitude, he stood out in a crowd. Curse his being short.

None of the people that reached six feet seemed threatening in any way, shape, or form, so John deemed it safe enough to move on.

He started to walk up to the prettiest hotel clerk he could find, planning to book a room for two days. He pulled out his wallet. And frowned.

* * *

John was a habitual man. That alone was a flaw turned into many. "John was a habitual man" soon turned into "John was a predictable man", and from there, "John was an easy man to kidnap".

Sherlock hummed to himself as he disabled the alarm on the doctor's clock. If he was lucky, the man wouldn't wake until after ten, meaning he, Sherlock Holmes, would win not even a minute after the game started.

He would be disappointed if that came to be, as his boredom would return in tenfold, but he had higher priorities. Winning this game and proving John wrong was more important.

Finished with his work, he stepped back. Honestly, he could start a fire in the doctor's room and his flatmate would remain dead to the world. He knew he was a heavy sleeper, but nevertheless, tiptoed around the bed and out the door, because if John woke now, his plan would be _ruined_.

Sherlock sat in his chair in the living room and opened a book.

Three hours later, John emerged, bed sheet adorning his ankles, and shot a nasty glower his way before racing to the bathroom. Sherlock calmly checked his watch. 9:46. So close.

"I know you tampered with my clock." John sounded angry. Did he look angry? His brows were slanted downwards, mouth pulled taut in and serious line, eyes boring into his own. John looked angry. John sounded angry. He sniffed. John _smelled_ angry. "I'm angry," the doctor declared. Sherlock was 99.9 percent sure John was angry. "And _don't_ give me that look!" the soldier added.

"What look?" the detective questioned, (hopefully) schooling his features into that of a heavenly being.

Sherlock saw John crack a small smile.

He listened to the sound of John dashing about for several more minutes. All too soon, the short man was prepared to leave.

"See you soon, John," he called out almost lazily.

"Yeah, right," he heard the doctor mumble as he stepped out.

Now came the waiting game. He drummed his fingers frantically against the armchair, his staying power rapidly deteriorating.

Patience was not his virtue. Patience was not his virtue. Patience was not his virtue.

What time was it? 9:56. He should prepare. Had John left yet? No. He could still sense his presence.

Sherlock wandered over to the window, silently counting down the seconds until 10:00. From there on, it would be fair game.

From his perch, the detective watched John walked out of 221b Baker Street. He looked at him closely. With a bag of that size, it was highly improbable that John had packed clothes. So, new clothes then. And he'd need to purchase food. And rent somewhere to stay, assuming that the doctor didn't decide to bunk with a friend of his. All of which required money, which the small soldier didn't have. He smirked to himself. In his left pocket, tucked safely inside, was John Watson's credit card. He had nicked it earlier this morning, around the same time he had tinkered with John's alarm clock. Now that his flatmate didn't have the means to afford a hotel, he would be forced to go to the bank and withdraw money in the form of cash.

As far as he knew, there was only one bank in the proximity of Baker Street. Sherlock would head there as soon as the clock struck ten.

He turned his attention back to the retreating figure of John, who suddenly stopped, turned, and waved cheerily at him. The detective made a face and swirled away.

_Four minutes. Just four._

He lost everything resembling patience and went for the door at three and a half. He'd given John more than enough time as it was.

Sherlock pounced on the doorknob, turned, and pushed.

It didn't budge.

_Of course_! John must have done something before he had left. That was why he hadn't immediately deserted the area! A slow smile crept onto his face.

Sneaky, sneaky John. He should have seen this coming.

Sherlock sighed and gave the door a good kick. Nothing. "Ms. Hudson!" he barked, throwing all of his weight onto the barrier. "_Ms. Hudson_!"

God, that woman was useless. He strode to the window once again (John was going to pay for this, he {really} didn't feel like climbing out a window), opened it, slipped out, and tumbled rather gracelessly to the ground via fire escape, ignoring the stares of those around him.

Hide and go seek. The oldest game in the world. And he'd underestimated his mouse.

Sherlock vanished into the London fog.

* * *

**A/N: In my world, there are no ATMs in hotels. :D**

**"Hide and go seek. The oldest game in the world." - Jack Reacher. ^^**

**Thoughts?**


	2. Monday

**DISCLAIMER: Don't own, don't sue. No profit. Don't sue.**

**A/N: CHAPTER TWO, I'M DISAPPOOINTED IN YOU**

* * *

**The Oldest Game in the World**

**_Monday_**

**_Sherlock. -JW_**

**_You there? -JW_**

**_Sherlock, what have you done with my credit card? -JW_**

**_Give it back, I know you have it. -JW_**

**_I mean it. I need it to survive. -JW_**

**_Come on, stop cheating! -JW_**

**_SHERLOCK! -JW_**

John Watson scowled down at his phone. He was certain that the man had received his texts; he was simply choosing to ignore them, for once in his life.

Back to the matter at hand. He needed a place to stay the night, but without his credit card, he had insufficient means to confide in a decent hotel. And _this_ ex- army soldier, mind you, _refused_ to bunk in some decaying, run- down, shabby little flophouse, just because the one and only child of a consulting detective had warped the rules until they hung crooked. It was unfair and uncalled for, and he was not going to abide by it. Mangling his alarm clock had been stretching his patience, but this was going beyond his tolerance.

Although, John had to admit; it _had_ been clever move.

With a defeated sigh, he turned to make his way to the nearest bank, which, thankfully, happened to be not that far off. He would withdraw money from his account and continue on his merry way.

But wait.

Sherlock Holmes never did something without an ulterior motive. What had been the purpose of nicking his card? Sure, he'd be short on funds, but what did that achieve? Nothing that would resemble a philosophical impact, that was for sure. In fact... Sherlock's actions accomplished close to nothing. The doctor would be inconvenienced on a minor level- all the detective was forcing him to do was take a pleasant stroll to the bank.

The bank.

Obvious! John nearly smacked himself upside the head out of frustration at his sheer stupidity. Sherlock would be waiting at the bank, where the small soldier would then be ambushed. It was amazing! Why bother to chase him down when he could set up a time and place and meet him there?

John immediately stopped and thought hard for a way to foil the detective's plans. No matter which way he thought of it, he needed money. The cash he had on hand was not going to see him through for more than a day, assuming he paid for the hotel.

Loan from a friend? No. No outside help was permitted.

Persuade Sherlock to surrender his hold on John's key to a comfortable night? He snorted. Yeah. Yeah, right.

He could not even entertain the notion of stealing.

The bank. He needed to go there. Whether he went now or later was a different story, but he needed to go.

If he went now, Sherlock would be waiting for him; he had no doubts about that. What was even more alarming was, despite his size, the man was perfectly capable of melting into a crowd with little more than a subtle change in his stance. He could blend in until he was invisible, unnoticeable, until it was too late.

If John went to the bank, say, three hours later, he knew Sherlock would still be there, just waiting. The detective's ability to endure boring situations was laughable to say in the least, but if it was of great importance to him, the man would stand there, as stubborn as an mule, just to get what he wanted.

In the end, it all came down to John. He could rent a room in an auberge with the money he held now, and march to the bank tomorrow, where the detective would likely _still_ be waiting. Or, he could humor his friend and go now, fully aware of what he was walking in to. Either he'd get caught, or he'd get a nice place to stay. All or nothing.

John nodded decidedly to himself. Right. Humor him, it was.

* * *

The doctor walked into the clothing store with utmost caution. The probability that Sherlock was _here_ was quite low, but one could never be too careful.

He browsed idly through the assortment of men's clothes. Soon enough, a store clerk approached him, sensing a potential sale in the making. She was pretty decent, with long blond hair, pretty eyes. and a formidable figure. By the end of his visit, he'd made his purchase and gotten her phone number on a slip of paper, served with an enticing wink. Hurrah for charming up women on the run.

The clothes he'd picked out were discreet- nothing like his usual style, but nothing too interesting either. An ordinary grey sweater with a hood and zippers fitted over an ordinary white T-shirt, coupled with dull blue jeans. Certainly nothing that would raise any eyebrows.

As soon as he strolled in the depository, John knew- _he knew_ that Sherlock was here somewhere.

He shuffled over with his head down and hood pulled up, vaguely wondering if this was a bad idea. The doctor filled out a withdrawal slip with reliable, steady hands, before walking up to the teller.

For a more or less seven day excursion, he'd taken out quite a lot of cash- a lot more than what he suspected he actually needed- but with Sherlock Holmes, you could never know.

By the time he had gotten what he needed, John was an apprehensive, jittery wreck. Why hadn't the dark haired man made his move yet? What on earth was taking so long? Had he been incorrect about the possibility of a trap? Or had John disguised himself so well that he had failed to pick him out? He scoffed at himself. Highly, highly unlikely.

John packed up his things and practically sprinted towards the exit, desperate to get out, to ensure his freedom.

As soon as he burst through the double doors, however, he ran straight into the arms of one smug consulting detective.

He yelped in shock and flailed as Sherlock grappled for purchase on John's newly purchased hoody. It wasn't long before his military training kicked in, and he caught a hold of one of Sherlock's arms, locked his fingers around the pale wrist and twisted lightly until he was forced to relinquish his grip.

The doctor and the detective were almost evenly matched when it came to a street brawl. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock wasn't all skin and bones underneath that bulky black coat of his (Not that he would know, of course). The man did have a surprising amount of muscle, which came in handy for dire situations that called for a small amount of violence. He tended to rely heavily on strategy and tact, however, preferring to defeat the enemy using methods that a) required the least amount of energy and b) were often very complex and confusing, so that his opponent never saw it coming.

John, on the other hand, found he turned to his instincts more often than not. He didn't need to think things through- he did them on impulse.

As soon as he was free of Sherlock's grip, he curled his left hand into a fist- thumb on the outside-, plunged it into the man's solar plexus, and hightailed it in the opposite direction, satisfied to hear the detective's indignant _Oomf_. No, more than satisfied. Ecstatic.

He sprinted away with a wide grin on his face. Sherlock Holmes. He'd just punched Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes. Oh, how good that had felt.

Where was he running? Now that he had the expenses, he could book a room- no. He couldn't head back to the hotel just yet. What if Sherlock followed him there?

John whirled around a corner. He had no idea where he was going. His flatmate was probably back on his feet now, weaving through alleys and on top of buildings, undoubtedly trailing him. He picked up the pace. Sherlock had been blessed with long legs and spaghetti arms, which could be viewed as a considerable advantage while chasing after your flatmate through the streets of London.

He scrambled through twists and turns for a solid fifteen minutes before he decided he was far away enough to stop. The doctor ground to a halt, his breaths coming out in rasps. He had run as fast as his feet would carry him, exerted himself to the point of exhaustion. John leaned against a brick wall, the adrenaline slowly wearing off. His friend was nowhere in sight.

Where was he? He glanced at the nearest street sign and sighed with relief when he recognized it. If he walked at a brisk pace, it would take no longer than an hour to get back to the hotel. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was half after one. John would need to stop somewhere for lunch.

He found himself at the entrance to an upscale shopping center, which promised a very extensive food court inside. John wandered in, thankful for the cover of the crowd. With this many people bustling about, it'd (hopefully) be harder for Sherlock to locate him.

Satisfied, the doctor ordered himself a hearty meal from a small Thai booth, and ate at a lone table smack dab in horde of bodies. Twenty minutes later found him ambling aimlessly throughout the complex, occasionally dropping into various retail stores, lured in by bright colors and upbeat music.

Sherlock abhorred window shopping. He was the type of person who came to a store who knew exactly what he wanted to purchase, the quantity, and which brand. The detective found John's idea of "browsing" particularly asinine, and loudly proclaimed to Lestrade and anyone else that bothered to listen, that it was an absolute waste of energy, a fool's errand, and that it was above him how people could "dilly dally the time away", when they could be doing something so much more captivating," such as commit a triple homicide."

He sighed. A bit not good, he had told him.

In fact, Sherlock had only agreed to take John window shopping once, and that was because the detective had used John's most prized jar of jam for an experiment, having no idea how much the jam meant to him. The whole way, the tall man did his best to remain petulant and displeased with the current circumstance, occasionally spitting out acrimonious statements about a passing woman's hair, a man's nose, _anything_ he could get his hands on, usually reducing whoever happened to be in his wrath to tears. The doctor found himself apologizing for his friend more than the status quo that day.

Sherlock had only (grudgingly) warmed up to the situation when they'd come across an impressive chemistry store that sold a wide array of illegal chemicals. He had instantly fallen for a particularly unstable type of compound and happily blew all the money he had in attaining it. And John had let him. It was a decision he regretted to this very day.

John paused at a popular men's clothing store. Should he buy another set of clothes, since Sherlock had already seen him in what he was wearing now? ...Why not. He already had the necessary expenses.

He picked his way through the t-shirt section, gathering up several propitious candidates when the doors to the shop flung open with a bang, and John, by chance, happened to glance up, alarmed by the racket.

Sherlock looked terrible. His coat was ripped along the side, his scarf hung at an odd angle, and twigs and various leaves adorned his untameable, mess of a hair.

He looked like a mad tree.

The doctor could only watch in half amusement, half horror, as his flatmate's icy eyes finally locked on him, freezing him in place until it was too late.

"_You_," he all but snarled, "_Found you_." And he lunged, arms outstretched.

John instantly dropped everything he was holding and bolted away, only to have strong, corded arms wind around him, with vaguely familiar hands clamped around his mouth.

People were staring, mildly concerned about the welfare of John Watson.

The detective was crazed, jerking him harshly towards the exit with unbelievable strength, and try as he might; he could not break the hold of the madman.

"Sherl-" His protest was cut off as the hand around his mouth tightened with renewed energy. "Shrl- stop-"

They struggled dangerously close to the entrance, where they slammed into a statue of a Greek goddess on display, and John stubbornly put his foot down. He would _not_ allow himself to be carried out of this retail store like some damsel in distress who was incapable of putting up a good fight. So he stood his ground, manned up, clasped on to the nearest object within his reach- the brink of a counter- and refused to budge an inch.

Undaunted, Sherlock tugged and pulled at him, even going so far as to take a hold of his both of his legs and yank without mercy, until John was parallel to the ground and he was certain his pants were going to come off.

"John," the taller man huffed, "don't make this difficult. Come along nicely now, won't you?"

The doctor's blue eyes narrowed until they were the edges of a coin. "No," he hissed venomously, "I. Am. Not. Moving. Let. Me. Go."

Sherlock watched as John went into porcupine mode. He was all spikes and angles now- don't get too close, or else the good doctor will hurt you. Someone call animal control.

He frowned distastefully and reached into the pocket of his trench coat. A light sedative was what he needed. Nothing too heavy- he didn't like the thought of having to _carry_ John, as small as he was- but something to make him a little more... Willing to accompany him. He had rather not resort to this approach, but desperate situations called for desperate measures. Oh, well. Tough luck for John.

John saw the glint of the needle and panicked. If any drugs wormed its way into his system- game over. He would be reduced to a bumbling, blithering idiot, and Sherlock would have the upper hand.

"Hey!" a cashier person called as they knocked over another shelf, "What do you think you're doing?"

The doctor wrestled himself out of Sherlock's grip and grimaced apologetically. "I'm sorry," he offered lamely, and was about to launch into a full- on declaration of how contrite he was, and how he'd stop by later on this week to make up for the damage done to the store, when Sherlock leaped for him, making a swipe with the syringe.

His reflexes were in tip- top shape, thank you very much, and John was able to dodge easily.

The detective growled when his second attack missed, along with his third, fourth, and fifth. On the plus side, he was backing his blogger into a rather tight corner- one that would be a feat to escape from, considering Sherlock would be blocking the only way out. He looked around. Bystanders were getting anxious, unsure. Soon they would be obliged to spur into action for the doctor's sake. He scowled at the smaller man, who calmly stared right back. Why, oh why was he always portrayed as the villain, and John, the innocent one? It probably had to do with the coat, he mused. It was far too swishy for the traditional protagonist. Or maybe it was because he was the taller one, making the army soldier appear smaller and more vulnerable by comparison? He took another step forward. John took one back, and started when he could found he could retreat no further. The doctor looked up into alarmingly bright azure eyes, eyes that were far too eager, too victorious. Sherlock was overconfident, certain that he had won, leisurely taking another step. No, not yet. John couldn't afford to lose. Not this time.

The detective gazed down into honest blue eyes, eyes that still searched, still continued to search for a route that assured liberation. John was trapped and he knew it. It was hopeless. Sherlock would always win. Always.

_Think_!The doctor was desperate now; he was running out of options. What could he do? There had to be a solution. There was always an answer. Sherlock could attest to that. If he only had more _time_...

He yelped as he felt a cold hand snake its way around his wrist, and John knew what was to follow. The syringe. And soon after, the drugs. It would fill his veins, pump through his blood, and make his world one, big, blur. The tip of the needle skimmed his sun kissed skin, and he gasped, fully allowing his instincts to take control.

John thrashed against the consultant, twisting away whenever the syringe neared any part of his body. He freed one of his hands, frantically reaching for the bag slung around his should- what? What on earth was he doing? His small pouch only held a package of crackers, keys, coins, one of Lestrade's police ID cards, and- oh.

_Oh_.

His mind finally caught up with his body, and he started to smile as the realization slammed home. Brilliant. Brilliant!

John arced to the side, successfully eluding the most recent assault of Sherlock's torturous onslaught. And then, while he had his chance, he slipped his hand into the pocket of the bag, ignoring all contents until his fist closed around his recently withdrawn wad of cash.

He procured an unknown amount of money in his hand, and raised it up for Sherlock- for everyone- to see. He saw the detective's eyes narrow- he could see a million deductions flying through his friend's head; where he got it, how old the cash was, where it was printed, and the age, height, and weight of the clerk who had retrieved it for him- but he didn't _understand_. Sherlock Holmes was _confused_. At loss. Confounded.

And John loved it.

As much as he would like to revel in the moment, he had things to do. Namely, to stop Sherlock from winning the game and having it rubbed in his face for two years.

John threw the currency in the air, and the money scattered like fireworks.

The reaction was instantaneous. People were suddenly everywhere, shoving, pushing, kicking, punching, biting, and fighting anyone and everything for a scrap of cash. The doctor himself was not spared. He received an elbow to the ribs, a foot to his shins- but it was worth it. The mob had done its job. Somewhere amidst all the chaos, he and Sherlock had been separated, and that was exactly what he had hoped for.

John squirmed through a mess of bodies (For once, being born small was not a bad thing), and, as soon as he reached fresh air, made a beeline for the exit to the mall while turning his sweater inside out. Thank _god_ he'd bought the reversible one.

Within a minute of the episode, John had managed to hail a cab bound for his predetermined hotel.

* * *

Sherlock watched the sun set from the window of 221b Baker Street, plucking mindlessly at the strings of his violin.

The way John had conducted his escape... Could that be classified as cheating? The man had, after all, used those around him to his convenience- though the doctor did not explicitly ask for help.

He flicked open his phone, glowering as he did so, savagely punching in The Number with all the fury and frustration he could muster. The dial tone needed only to ring once before his call was answered. Normally he'd text, but the detective knew much questions were to be asked.

"Mycroft," he said. "I need a favor."

* * *

**:O**

**SHERLOCK YOU CHEATER YOU**


End file.
